Celadon: Issue 2

I've just finished the second issue of Celadon! Feel really excited with how these characters are taking over my Soul and all. Contact me if you'd like to purchase a copy, they're six dollars before shipping. I hope you can spare! Here's a preview of the issue itself.

Vicious

This strange Wideness towards light, then Coughs meet.

Inbred new places stop out the sides of what I touch. 

Sky is no father, Luke mimes. My hand on his nipple, 

places his allmist mouth on my raw palm. Cymbals luff.  

Lystic, look at these legs: soilless flesh yet unnatural  

on end; goosebump red, pink, felt dragged in. Skin white 

windowed in paddles of saturn-velvet: uncanny, stem liquid 

chants. Kayak wakes, patches of tongue serrated mallow. 

Cedrus, myrcene. No one stands outside.

We can’t hang out in the fingerflecks anymore.

You’ve nooned your sigh, gave up the black gate of Animal.

Now that’s what I call liberty: blow me, then call in Evening.  

In nudeless scrawl. My lids trickle each crownkiss 

destined for salt to column their calm belt of whisper. 

Humility between this fingernail’s cracked tulips. After today,

Luke can look crazy in the light thinking of his blood

not color nor cane nor loud turns of marble in strangled milk.

I look at his Eyes. Blinks caught in rhythmic pillars’ pestilent dew.  

I look at his rising flavors and the green flames of an Ariel

in ghostlike symmetry with the residue of Saturday; alone in roads. 

The Thousand-Eyed Pelican of Atlantis

Gone colors, itchy with shoreline. Some dream gurgles towards the surface, tattooed with Frenzy's thickink. Who exhales naked violet, then worn patches. Spikes, a vacant yellow, a candle forgotten by Dawn. Carpenter new alones, like an atlas limping out the skull of Poseidon. Has this the echo flavor, this child. 

Slobbery sargasso won another back here.

Rose, then broken. Some boy slit with fresh mile,

serene chest, dirty questions. Mako in his gums. 

Call this hostage residue, lengthen evening. Acne roe scattered side black coral, his eyes inverted oysters. Did he ever sleep, I ask myself. Dial tone scraped across the anemone prophet-sage, Athenated porepools. Teeth knives, soft pumice pupils. Albino baleen sprouts from back, bald otherwise but for this growth. 

None splinters eels red, sore expires. Bright now. 

Livid to his side, imitating Gills of Paradise, his wrinkles. 

Walking prism, never mask of Breath, bobbing muscle. 

And now with his neck soothed down my Pale Beak. Towards the parapets of Ivory, children in saliva-sabledresses of diatoms and nettle. I'm not here to outdo the helpless, just my eyes abound in verdigris, prize Pink the science of the Storm. Figures in landscape, spasm bath salts and sluice, no more edges. Pearling lives. 

Abandoned to hope, skin-flicker of moist gravity. 

To find even him ravined in scatter Face, orphan scars 

trailing from his neck like sacrament. I trace what I can where. 

Into each of these mornings another poured, another round I trickle. Another cabbage-plumed beast fondled by the rabid Cancers. Can never pluck off barnacle for its Spiral binds the Soul. Never quench Mautumn Sun for it throbs from their Heart. Never calm these Elements yet myself alembic the Terror. I practice my own blood. 

Celadon: first issue

I just finished work on the first issue of Celadon. While it doesn't make total sense yet, bear with me as there are still many issues to come. If you'd like a copy just e-mail me at : ms08j@my.fsu.edu.

They're 6 dollars before shipping and handling or if you want the actual pdf, I'll give it to you gratis. 

Hope you like it. 

All Hail my Child Celadon.

Thor's Day, the 1498957th of Ouroborosber

You’re listening to the Wyrm. Abandon all to the Wyrm. 

Scattered reports have come in on the recent development in the S.C.U.B.A. (Semiotics Cauterized Under Bibliofrothing Aardvarks) sector of the rising disintegration Swarmblue fury, rising pepperminted shin confetti and sashimi-blushed faces of those massacred in the Shinto-Dianetic Initiative. While unknown relations persist  between the growing Honda Elemental threat, we have a schematic for the Environment-Wherever-Pylon which intercepts enough of the Sound to get our ‘knees into our feet’ as the popular slogan has it. The President of the Omloch Republic of America is preparing to speak out against these simper-bolted turmoils later this week in a press conference scheduled on the azimuth of every third cuticle in the World. 

You’re listening to the Wyrm, the only news team that gargles into the very cerebellum of our Day. 

Now, over to our plateau-pored princess, Our Lady of the Teratoma, with her weekly Cultural/Media Crunch:

Thank you, Gossamer Smith. 

You know, friends, there’s a limit where the scriptures give out, where they translucent into that aftertaste of laughter and all you can do is chew up splinters of the words you came to trust. But all us on the hearing end gets a spank of wasted syllabland, disfigured geometry once praised for its scintillated curvature called Word. 

But shit, bitch those days are done. 

I DP (I’m phallossoming this time of month)a 12-year-old moloch vestigial-Colossus every morning in place of orange juice and imitate the wind through all his cuneiform-seared cavities. The effect: 3 parts granite Compari, two parts bliss. 

Look, notice the way ridges swell at my approach. They call it a sickness and yeah I’m a student of the Taxonomy of the Cough, but at least I retain sweet vistas. We all became this way for a sifted backlash of revenue I call “Baby Bordello Gen-Fix” because the chemical melee prawned all of Greater Kindergarten into a ripe jambalaya of kid bone and kid fucky-flesh.

No one seems to remember a time before these Carapace Memoirs became a go-to popular feed, but for less than a fiber fifty off the quai you could channel your aura’s mp3 chakra-clones into several Salamander-like tissue probes.
Dance the night back into the dermis of the Diplidocus. 

Times apparently change? But really this is just a loophole gambit back to Word right? 

In the wake of the re-terrorist @Now-herds, the city mesh did not function swimmingly. People fell in and out of existence like pinball bacteria in a luminous, luminous gangrene. Eventually, the youth siphoned itself into a question-mark-like coil and bonscorched the facelands into a monument unparalleled in grandeur and oxidation. 

Vitamins then took such a resilient stance against production, sick of millenia spent in aid and foundation. Their mineral efficiency diminished into a rich armada of opposite blisters like mach-guns' backwards suck, a slippery antithesis to their familiar ballistic. 

Of course, at this point, everything that might even slightly resemble the attributes of a mother compounded into a Vegas type fluorescent pentagon of sun that ravaged the prairies in leviathanical thrust and cap, stun and surge. Mothers had finally got the upper hand on childrenated distance, but of course this distorted the suffocating image of infant blasting it through barrier on barrier of skin and alba, reaching up a scythy-vesicled form of offspring: the Vowel, and how ecstatic we all were upon that encounter. 

As you know, I could not let these passages go unintruded so I gaussed up a beacon-shiva and tore every gilded appendage from the respective horizons of the mass and threw a light dinner consisting of radish-arugula-staple-pig salad and the wine of a fossilized eunuch of torture unknown to this genetic miasma. Only the celebrities most anthrax-scattered were accepted and the ghosts of my two uncles who consistently ate sections of each others Lymphatic Vessels through their nights during the third phase of the fifth American civil war. 

Tired with the battalion of my mostly carnivorous HDTV, I lie in the milky wilderness of the Petroleum of the Endless, which naturally shot up everywhere to compete with the nano wipeout of the Saga Theme Empire. 

How many people must be mutilated bed-bath-and-beyond method before my voice has Words like I met them again?

(at this point a millennium carbides all noise to sigh)

I take the seconds in stride and quietly salute you from somewhere deep in my continent of arms. 

Worry not, my friends, for Our Lady has just begun. 
As I’m sure all the misttoos on your thousand-rented bloodmark indicates, I deserve the World. 

Nothing confronts my medusa-rifled banshee streaming: suck on the lullfrills top like all the 24/7 river-mouths finally found a little crotch, snap, and poppa they can call home. 

Sincerely from out the Shining Cysts,

Our Lady of the Teratoma

You’re listening to the Wyrm.

Cyborganic Antelope on Jejeunal Branches of the Gaza Crater in the recent 'Mirror of the Moon' campaign have taken the left nodule of Orlando hostage. Currently negotiations seem to be centered around the absolute admittance of the entire Neo-Serengeti Expansionists into the Albionic Citadel Pulp on the up-and-coming Creek District of our sister planet Venus. More on this as it develops.

Abandon all to the Wyrm.   

drawings

These were all drawings I did for the awesome, radical zine Please, You Will Sodomize Me?!?

Animal Man

how your digestive mirrors mutilated me to sentaur
I sacred the convex prophecy a second (a pale beat)
then dog-ear those precious clones of me, strangled
waves of ness-nest speaking closes, rosegrout teethes

and wrist-herd grammars tightly, coldly seething
dark organs, anvil plumage. iridescent voices merge
in the tendons and folds producing flock of keelveins.
heartvest scrapes sky, blood clouds fumble their throat

swarming aqueducts go blind; organelles rinse statues
of silent faces: a forceful blend. coral-fat aorta spells
shade cerebral, tersely pumping vocables. more distance,
always more stunted on horizon and augury swanland

compass the marble hurricanes in my tropics, dead atlas
of my fistrange. knuckles melted slowly fall away,
until my clench resembles a red dune, a broken forest.
I love you in the strange canyon of my youngest mouth

your voyage through my autopsy pollinating soft genocide.
you should lay down your heads, hydrate skull corsage
on rain-membered velvet and spider-gilled petals, watch
my dickfield rising gently over arches of our rippled spine

mormaid

in my second life I am mormaids

of veils and silvery scales 

I do not wear a bra 

I have no mammary tits 

I do not sing and do not know English

I speak bubble and salt water

I chant a fluid grunt through gill and fin

people come and shoot harpoons at me

while I finger dolphin twat for fun

sonar screams a wall be chasing us

my second life is yanked on deck

sailors swoon for my bright fish cunt

they gangrape fuck get splayed dicks

some pieces stick deep in me 

but remoras clean me right

dolphin fags come fix my weave

primp me full to squirting pearls 

we cruise around the white-wash bays

sip marlin-tails in conchshell mugs

trade my roe for foul daddy spew

nothing dirties my platinum form

my arms like gowns of anemone 

my tail like unclasped bracelet dangles 

I the bimbo and reef of the wild sea

I the rank collapse of mercury and teen

I the special brine freed midst tides

some day they’ll fry my beauty to nuggets

share me over their snack-craven eves 

my second life will be a cunt filet 

of crumbs and lemon slices

Justice League of America

We all have super powers, mine’s I can stare straight into the sun.

Matty skipping after static-colored butterflies, over fields he sees the pollinated silhouettes. 

Hot monkeybars in carpenter ants. On the Velveeda slide someone scratched, Life’s bitch fucked my mom too.

In the soccer field they play games back and forth for the netless goals. 

The sun rose holding the lagoon with insistent ultra like dogs nailing each other to form some rudder. 

He sits in a patch of white mangroves sucking his reading herd’s dicks. 

First an older red-haired soccer wraith dense with wrinkling opinions. 

All the world will suck dick like you, Matt, when they learn what we know. When they know. 

He strokes the buds of his faint spine. 

Among the clusters of spur and stinging nettle shiny as tears, while sobbing relays off. 

Mesh of scabbard, swollen skin of cheerful damage. They watch the carnage glisten. 

Spank clips hallway and playground and open patches of field through the actinium trees. 

Sunlight follows him and they gather moss to pretend pubes stall inside. 

Pattycake follows them and they salt themselves with children foot dandruff.
Voice feeds him. Serrated boys line their crotches along his mouth, ceremony teethes with piss.  

Staring into the sun makes the red come down to curtsy, banish the leftover gravity.

Matthew is what they call and I sit up straight and see dinner ready and hamburger shoreline moan, 

spraying ketchup spinnerets, onions scream in the wind. Soggy white fries wander away.

Fingers around kitchen counter edges stroking. 

Morning comes from inside, absently stroking and adjusting the dials on the oven, wood struts in the fireplace. 

Try not to get yourself burnt, but you can poke, poke ok? poke each room skyless but big, but pressing against my head. 

Broken darts the slinking of those recent crowds in halls left again, crossed to the year’s frail sheen.

Look up at the sun and see it is the same, but his shadow chooses its angles now. 

They chase him out of each room, street heavy bulbs about hookworms in the rash puddles, 

shell-dirt roads, bare feet all torn, bud light ruins. Wire hangers watch, clusters of spongey fruit, rusted mosaic entrails. 

Cot eyes became dandelions left alone. Like the dolls who stitch replicas of his shadow all the places he got fingered and fed. 
The cove of sea wall, like an echo-shaved arena. 

He cried this first night, and when he told me he wasn’t and turned towards the wall 

or closed venetian blinds over the open window, I learned a quiet. Wind coos an emptying delight. 

Then I held him below me, like how I played the ‘anchor waltz’ at pool parties. 

Until the longest day. In place of a name, they would just watch me after that day. 

Into the yellow fronds popping up right when the night was feeling so comfy, chugging dream. 

Skin enlists palatal maw, embers of sleep fail. Pussy roast and breath dark, gouging new phase. 

Tongues mesh in chest stream and his ivy. Spray dawn, he plugs more friends than I know.

Shades begin to pearl, flow over their puddles. Sticky gold, his blink tarnished. That’s that. 

Carapace mistletoe dragged out from behind his teeth. Yes, and so it’s finally Christmas for him. 

Sieve turns on his translucent body like the tree our intentions never captured. 

The Cerberus Gundam he whined after resting silently in a styrofoam package

I spray-painted yellow and dipped in a kiddie pool of hot wax and unicorn stomachs. 

The name puckers, soft as feathery matches, awaiting its moment, all too soon. 

Then the moment scrunches in and his body believes in me.

Mr. Steele, Mr. Steele, we have open experiment ready in your name, act now!!! 

Me a sort of composite of their own control. Their last Tuesdays, baseball tiaras. Radish gingivitis. 

Their own set of lips they kiss when I lean in just to smell what time it is. 

Under the criss-crossing girders the people nod and hoot and wind scalds their tongues.

Swarm a kind headache in the long street, between the steeples like remoras, my eyes still crumbs here and there. 

Iron sea channels glisten, the incandescent boy glittery with sagging bell ligaments and chorus. 

He admires anything that can disappear in varying hues. 

Calls it the proper disease. I smile at this, almost as if I understand what he means or care to learn more. 
Taking my hands, he strokes the porcelain boomerang of his collarbone, and squeezes the nipples, irritating their inert bloom. My jagged wrists peel away the gross cabbage-like tears piled around his eyes in mountains. 

When I reach the pupil, I’ve almost lost my own sight. The desert gushes out of him-- or not exactly, just below him. 

Just before our us stimulates the atmosphere. 

My eyes pulsate out neutron sockets, fields of glass-rinsed faces and bud light smolder. 

Flickering orifices begin to ripple out my Sphinx, craving his skinny bannister. 

Asphyxiated on dream skin, all staring separates leaving just traces onto dawn. 

Light dilutes the eye wind’s sloppy beam for a sec, thinking it won. But then he sighs. 

Sprinting down cramped hills, grass yellow grows blue with laugh. Scaled daisies and dandelion gaseous. 

Morning dribbles infant air, colliding into the pale asteroids pinnaclated over the thrust of his dark cradle. 

Laugh havocs solar flare. My sun resistance just the late echo in the mirror. 

Bleary money-shot fixed on columns of alabaster irises watching their subtitles: 

no way out but sinking playlist, no way in but forever, Matt. One day they’ll know. One day. 

He stands above the scepter of ringworms, body glowing through him scathed yet unopened. 

He knows what I’m looking at now, so used to his eternal. I’m used to the quadrants of muscle monorailing through him in flexible horizons. When he begins to devour me, slowest process of them all (so maybe it already started a thousand years ago on the capital of Venus)-- when he moves closer and closer down the way I can tell he wants to, I’ll be set. I was born here, you see.